


Working Explosives

by marshv



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bombs, Explosions, Fantasizing, Male Solo, Masturbation, Other, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-public masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 10:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12011277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marshv/pseuds/marshv
Summary: The resulting detonation sent metal flying in every direction. Big, heavy pieces that tore through everything they touched. It had been gorgeous. One of the most satisfying things he'd ever seen.





	Working Explosives

**Author's Note:**

> I have no further comment. This is Junkrat jackin' it during a battle and getting off to the sounds of his bombs. Please don't judge me I've wanted something like this forever and I've never seen it written.

Jamison Fawkes knew why he was here.

 

He wasn't here because he was an upstanding citizen. He wasn't here because he had nice manners. He wasn't here because he was well liked or because of his charisma or nonexistent mental prowess.

 

Junkrat was here because he is good at what he does.

 

_Boom._

 

He feels the ground shake when somewhere in the distance, one of Fareeha’s rockets blasts a hole through a wall. It's good. It’s loud enough that he can hear it and it sends a vibration up his spine.

 

It's good. But not as good as him.

 

Holding his frag launcher, his mechanical hand tightens around the grip of it. It’s solid steel scrap metal, with no padding or molding to rest his fingers. Why would he need it? He couldn't feel it anyway. After all, he made it himself. He knows what he needs. And he doesn't need a weapon that’s comfortable to hold.

 

What _does_ he need? Oh he knows. He needs something loud. Downright deafening. A weapon that recoils and sends him jerking backward. One that can deal enough damage to bring down a city. An entire fucking city. Completely shatter a whole infrastructure with no effort at all.

 

He remembers watching half the town crumble. Memories of the queen’s shack going up in flames bring a familiar, pleasant shiver that tickles the hair on his neck. The resulting detonation sent metal flying in every direction. Big, heavy pieces that tore through everything they touched. It had been gorgeous. One of the most satisfying things he'd ever seen.

 

His jaw tightens. The corners of his mouth curl into a smile at the memory of it, a smile that terrified even the other junkers back home. Because he only did it when he had destruction on his mind. And he didn't care who got in the way.

 

Ilios is a pretty city, he thinks. It's old and crumbling and it would be easy to blow the whole place to rubble. Just send the buildings crashing into the sea after detonating a bomb on the cliff side they were built on.

 

But that would be too fast. Too simple. The art of it is having the power to destroy in a second, but stretching the process out instead. He _could_ obliterate the place. Have it done in the blink of an eye. But there's more pleasure in making it last. Pleasure in hearing explosion after explosion, every single one of them from bombs _he_ made. From grenades _he_ threw.

 

Still grinning, he bites down on his tongue, tip poking out from between his teeth. He waits, lips pulled too far back to suggest anything other than his true intentions. His impressive height is folded in half, lanky body somehow managing to fit behind a couple of crates. He can hear footsteps. They aren't from anyone he knows, which means he can blow their owner to smithereens and not get in trouble.

 

With a demented cackle that makes his shoulders shake, he finally shoots three lone grenades into the corridors beyond his hiding place. The _tap tap tap_ they make as they hit the ground fills him with anticipation. He releases his tongue to bite his lip. Then, one after the other, the grenades detonate, successfully scaring off whoever was close by. The footsteps are louder as their owner runs away.

 

Powerful destructive waves obliterate a wooden table in the aftermath, a series of sickening cracks snapping the wood in half.

 

Not expecting it, he groans, long and low, in the deepest part of his chest. It's so good. Just what he needs. The way his eyes flutter shut obscure the sight of the wood scattering, but a small piece falls near his knee, and he can feel himself already getting hard.

 

It was always like this. He didn't think about it, didn't want to. It felt so incredible that there was no point in asking questions. Even if it was fucked up, which it probably was, he didn't plan on stopping. It was amazing. Better than any touch he ever got from anyone. More arousing than the sexiest looking person he could conjure up in his irradiated brain.

 

Nothing was better than this. Not a damn thing.

 

Screaming a dozen or so meters away doesn't do anything to faze him. With the smirk still plastered to his face, a mine in his hand, thighs tight and aching to move, he sprints to the doorway and crouches behind what's left of the table.

 

His peg leg makes crouching painful. His thigh is digging into the ridged grooves around what would be his calf. But he's used to that by now. Seeing the splinters and ruined four-by-fours is like fuel to him. It's another pile of debris he alone is responsible for. One he created. A Junkrat original. After he sets up a mine, tossing it outside onto another building’s support column, he clutches the detonator between his flesh fingers, thumb shaking over the button.

 

But he doesn't press down. Not yet.

 

Not thinking much of it, no impulse control to speak of, he lets his body do what it wants. And on instinct, he grinds his growing erection against the corner of a wall. Because it's right there. And really he doesn't care who's house this is or how disrespectful he’s being. No one was around and the place was being turned to rubble anyway. He was taking it down. Might as well get some last use out of it.

 

He's becoming obscenely hard. Even after a pathetically small explosion. His hips snap forward, uneven and desperate, rubbing into the edge of the wall. He shudders, face contorting. Knowing they were in the middle of a battle. People offing each other left and right. Hell. Even if he had a fucking gun to his head he’s not sure he'd be able to stop. And fuck if that isn't a turn on.

 

There's a bead of perspiration slipping down his face. His entire body is starting to sweat. The heat in the city is nothing though—there was a cool breeze and everything—but the blasts and carnage outside made everything so much hotter. Who needs coats and scarves when you have bombs? Not Junkrat.

 

God it feels good. It had been over a month since he'd gotten off like this, with explosives and gunfire surrounding him. It just wasn't the same without them. Blood pulses through the length of his cock, pumping the thick head full until it drips with pre cum that sticks to his shorts. It's messy. And he knows he's going to have to clean up after this but can't bring himself to care.

 

After all, he's already rock solid. No use in stopping. Just a little havoc was all it took to get him humping the damn wall. He's had a few mishaps in the past when his cock had perked up unannounced. Not an easy thing to hide, he was proud to say. And he wonders if someone would be impressed if they found him right now. Really he'd love to show it off. No shame whatsoever. It makes him think of his mines. And his detonator, the thing he was most proud of.

 

It’s an unassuming piece of scrap glued and taped together in a way that is ugly, but works. And it holds together despite him dropping it and flinging it across the room and obsessively running his fingers over the length of it. The feel of it in his hand, his flesh hand, is different from the feel of holding his frag launcher. The detonator is smaller, sneakier, more intimate. He could hide it in his pocket and no one would be any the wiser. It was roughly the same width as his dick and molded perfectly to the inside of his fist.

 

He's taken down skyscrapers with his grenades. He loves his grenades. They're hand crafted and serve him well. His rip-tire? A masterpiece. But his mines—his detonator—always provided the finishing touches. Every time. They got him out of more binds than he could count. Sent out a sound that was distinctly different from anything else he made. They went off whenever his thumb came down on the button. That magnificent red button. It created a wonderful little click, followed by a beep that never once failed to make his cock twitch.

 

When the jagged edge of the wall isn't enough anymore, he sits back on his ass, metal leg scratching the floor, and sends off five more grenades onto the streets below. It's out of impulse. A deeply ingrained biological urge. No thinking required. There's tapping again as they hit the pavement. Except now they aren't as loud because they aren't confined to a tiny room.

 

But the _explosion_ they make. Oh. It's worth it.

 

Metal objects ricochet off crumbling drywall at high speed, shattering through a window. He body trembles and he bites at his tongue again. Risking being seen, he crawls to peer over the edge of his hidey hole, just in time to see a heap of lattice blasting off into the air, taking several large couches and a set of wine glasses with it.

 

Fuck that's a big one. Bigger than he was expecting. _Fuck_ that's nice.

 

His eyes roll back and he groans again. Taking in the sounds. Relishing in them. His cock is begging to be stroked at this point and he's about ready to cry from how bad he wants it. The way his mouth is hanging open is unattractive, debauched, his face bright red from holding in his breath.

 

The detonator is warm, inviting, cradled perfectly in his palm— made just for him. It's the perfect size. He can't control himself after he hears the wine glasses break into shards. Painfully hard, he starts stroking the edge of the detonator over his bulge. It's not easy doing it through his shorts, but that unassuming metal device—that gorgeous red button, surrounding his cock with hot flesh and metal—has him closer than any human could ever get him.

 

He crawls backwards against the same wall, his hips and hand never slowing. They roll at a frantic pace. Grinding hard. Jittery and unpredictable, he strokes with a slippery palm, pulling and rubbing through fabric while saliva drips from his open mouth.

 

It's a last ditch effort to make it even better. One he has to do fast. With his breathing heavy, low and deep in his chest, struggling to maneuver, he fumbles with the belt trapping his cock. He shoves his hand inside. And as soon as skin meets skin, his body drenched in sweat, wet and dirty, he whines in a high pitch, struggling to stop himself from coming too early.

 

The detonator and his cock fit together like they were designed for this, literally designed to touch each other, both rock solid and hard and warm as he _squeezes_ his hand around them. He humps into it, it’s easy with the obscene amount of cum dripping over his hand, sliding into the slick tunnel he's made for himself and coating the span of his fingers.

 

He has the pad of his thumb running over the edges of the button. It slides over the flat top of it, stroking it like he does his dick. Firm. Delirious. His cock pulses, the veins straining over tight skin. God it's filthy. The sounds of his ugly moans don't even register. All he hears is the sick squelching his fist makes as it pumps over the fat head of his dick.

 

It harder to breathe the further he goes. Some part of him, the part that wants to keep his job, forces down his deranged laughter. Instead his breath is coming out in shallow puffs, trembling, exhaling every time he fucks into his fist. He hisses. Just a little more. A little tighter. He's gripping himself hard enough to hurt. It's perfect. So hot. Even his arm is hurting from how tense he is. The back of his thighs are numb from holding up his body and he's grateful one of his legs isn't real. His teeth grit together like he's being tortured. Eyes roll into the back of his head and he can't see anything but bright flashes.

 

With his fingers tingling, electricity coursing through him, cock ready to burst, he jams his thumb into the button of the detonator and lets it blow.

 

Two quick, chirping beeps. And he cums. Yelling out. An massive shockwave of firepower takes out the next door office building. His load floods into his fist, slipping between his fingers, streaking the detonator and his upper thighs with ropes of cum. He grimaces, whining through his teeth, and keeps stroking. The detonation is ear piercing, overshadowing the noises he makes while he orgasms. The support column of the office complex crashes down, bringing the second floor onto the first, the whole building crushing into itself.

 

He keeps his fist moving until the world is silent—until the last roof shingle falls. Fisting his softening cock, he gradually loosens his hand until the last bits of his high fade away. He's dazed, eyebrows raised and eyes half closed from the sheer intensity of it. Breathing still scratchy, shallow and unproductive, his shoulders shiver with the force of every breath he takes in.

 

It uses up the last of his strength to pull his hand out and let it flop on the floor. He smiles lazily. He's a goddamn mess like he knew he would be. There's spunk coating the inside of his shorts, smashed into the blonde curls going up his abdomen. Everything is wet. His hair is plastered to his forehead and for once, it's not defying gravity and sticking up everywhere.

 

It was always fantastic, always worth it. And he never regretted it. Not once. The aftermath is a pain in the ass, though. Even with a clean-up rag on hand.

 

With muscles that twitch from exertion, he shambles to his feet, grunting, using the wall as support. His left hand is still covered in filth and his detonator is halfway plastered to his fingers. Not put off in the slightest, he lifts it to his face and kisses the side of it.

 

“You're perfect ya know that? Always givin’ me just what I need.”

 

Nothing wrong with that. No sir. But he was glad no one saw it.

 

He swivels his head around looking for a towel or lone napkin, eventually giving up and wiping his hand and the detonator off on a curtain. It was dusty, but moderately clean. Really he was just looking to get his spooge off of everything and make himself presentable enough that Hog didn't nag him.

 

Where had he wandered off to anyway?

 

Grumbling as he picks up his frag launcher, he places his detonator in his pocket and exits out of his hidey-hole. It takes him a good ten minutes to find the team but when he does, Roadhog is among them.

 

Hog notices him immediately and fixes the younger junker with a glare that only Junkrat can see. It's half disgust and half disappointment, and he grunts in a lackluster greeting.

 

“Shut your mouth, Hog, I didn’t do anythin’ I wasn't ‘sposed to. Why you always gotta assume the worst? Can't I get back here to some smiles ‘stead of you runnin’ ya mouth every time? Fuck off, mate.”

 

Roadhog doesn't say anything but Junkrat can tell what he's implying.

 

“ _No._ ” Junkrat fixes him with a glare. “I was _not_ doing that and you’d be roight to mind ya own business. ‘S downright perverted asking that type a thing. ‘Sides, we’re professionals now. And you better start acting like one! Shame on you always having dirty things on the mind.”

 

A deep wheezing sigh is the only sound Roadhog makes. And Junkrat softens some, but looks at him out of the corner of his eye with a smug, sideways grin.

 

“Doesn't matter much anyway when I still get the job done. Just havin’ some fun with it that's all.”

 

Junkrat takes great joy in the way Roadhog visibly cringes, too subtle for anyone but the two of them to notice. But then Hog shakes his head, chuckling and placing one giant hand on his bony shoulder, and Junkrat joins him, breaking into a fit of giggles.

**Author's Note:**

> He probably lets him watch


End file.
